Compromise Measures
by Salome Sensei
Summary: An ongoing series of oneshots and drabbles for Mustang/Hughes lovers. Adults only, please.
1. Shake

Summary: Can solace be found on the battlefield?

Warning: Soft yaoi (Mustang/Hughes)

Author's Note: Intended as a brief moment of salvation, to set a scene and invoke empathy. And arouse the Mustang/Hughes lovers.

2/09

Shake

The scene is nearly deserted now. Alchemy and firepower have reduced homes to rubble, crops to cinders, human beings to carcasses. Scattered blue uniforms dot the immediate landscape: no stone must be left unturned, no survivor spared. The war must be ended and we must win. A bleeding corpse does not know it is dead already and curses a fellow officer to the ungodly hell we are all already living in. My body begins to shake.

I maintain the composure for which I am known long enough to find my way behind a half-crumbled wall that was once an Ishbalan home. My eyes dart left to right, and I give way to the shuddering that has threatened to overtake me for days now. The sun is setting on this scene of desolation, this evidence of the wreckage of the human soul. My soul. I press my face to the mudplaster, warmer than my feverish body, and moan.

Moments or hours later I feel you, Maes, prying my fingers from the broken edifice and murmuring something, soft and low, that I cannot get my mind to comprehend. I don't resist you, don't really even know you are there until I fall back into your strong arms and you bring me to another demolished little hovel.

I should pull myself together. I must. I will. But you are carrying me and then laying me back in the rubble, continuing your gentle, soothing words. Removing your jacket and wrapping it around me, your voice is a lullaby in a foreign language, beautiful and protective. I look up but it is too dark now make out your features, and my head is heavy. I imagine your eyes behind your glasses capturing and holding mine, keeping me from slipping further away. I say your name to make it real, but I cannot stop shivering and I don't know if I am truly speaking or just imagining I am.

You bring your lips to mine, and I open to you. The tremors cease. The world is your embrace.

Bring me back alive, Maes.


	2. Compromise Measure

Summary: Hawkeye must go through with a promise she made to Mustang...while Hughes watches.

Warnings: Anal penetration, military style. References to yaoi. Intense, not romance.

Author's Note: Thanks to my first delightfully snarky reviewer for this chapter (originally its own fic) for reminding me that Hughes is a Lieutenant Colonel. I've fixed the references below. I get great pleasure in knowing I've besmirched this anonymous reviewer "Daniel's" mind, if only for a week. Who knows, maybe it'll stick.

2/09

Compromise Measure

Lieutenant Hawkeye was shaking as she spoke, fighting to keep her voice calm and confident, her resolve firm. "I am ready, Sir." She was anything but.

"Good," Mustang grunted, rising from his chair, hands firmly on his desk. "It's long overdue."

"It is you who set the terms of our agreement, Sir," she added. Somehow, she hoped it would help to say it. It didn't.

"You don't have to remind me, Hawkeye." He headed to the window to darken the room and ensure the privacy they needed. Then he returned to his desk, picked up the telephone, and called Hughes.

Hawkeye swallowed hard and took out her handgun. It was in perfect condition. Clean, accurate, well-oiled, ready to fire. She rubbed the cool, smooth surface of the barrel as she listened to Mustang command Hughes to his office. She furrowed her brow. She must wait.

Whenever she contemplated the duty of following through with her promise to keep the Major in line or take him out, it was a simple either/or option of serving him or shooting him. She assumed she'd never truly do the latter, but if she did, it would be the action of a moment: looking the Colonel in the eyes, informing him that he had failed himself beyond redemption, and shooting. A one-woman firing squad with nothing but devotion to and admiration for her victim.

Life was far more complicated now than on the battlefield—and perhaps always had been. That fact was something Hawkeye never truly allowed herself to acknowledge. Even when Colonel Mustang explained the "compromise measure" he expected of her one late night as they completed a seemingly unending mound of paperwork with the aid of far too much coffee, his language and its implications were sufficiently vague for her to salute, agree, and push any uncertainty and discomfort away. The discussion was never repeated, and Hawkeye found it easy to dismiss…until today.

Moments earlier, Colonel Mustang reminded her of her pledge of that night, and it took serious, soldierly discipline not to let her jaw drop. Now it took all of her strength not to tell him she would prefer to just forgive the poor decision he had recently made regarding the Elric Brothers and their research into the Philosopher's Stone. Yes, they had been put in unnecessary danger and yes, he could have done more to protect them. Yes, she had chosen to call him on his failure and yes, she had vowed that when such comeuppances came from her mouth there must be repercussions. And no, this was not an offense worthy of shooting him. They both knew that. But this "compromise" clause. How happy she had been to forget it, and to trust he had too.

The abrupt knock at the door made her jump. Hughes burst through with a loud, smiling greeting and a slap on her shoulder. She yelped. She should have known he'd not only take this in stride but make a spectator sport of it. But then, it was Colonel Mustang who summoned him. As they saluted one another and Hughes' grin continued to spread, Hawkeye felt a twitch beginning between her shoulder blades.

"Colonel, Sir!" he snapped. "I am grieved to be summoned over such troubling circumstances." Wrapping an arm around Mustang's shoulder, his voice dropped, though the smile didn't. "I expected more from the future leader of our nation." He laughed, then smacked his superior on the ass for emphasis. Mustang grumbled and elbowed him in reply.

Hawkeye gasped at the exchange, despite herself. Hughes was always overly casual with the Colonel in official spaces, and now was not the time. All right, so the two clearly had a relationship that not only enabled but necessitated such…informality. But still… She bit her lip, thinking about how often she wished she could be a little more at ease with him but also knowing she did not want that. Even though it might help a lot right now. Then again, maybe this was all just a formal means of embarrassing her to death. She ejected the magazine from her weapon and dropped it on the desk.

"Check the chamber?" Hughes inquired, head cocked.

Hawkeye refused to react to the ridiculous question. She was just about to do exactly that. But he was making her so damned nervous—and, it seemed, intentionally so. She fidgeted with the weapon, fingers nervously working at far less than their usual precision. The task was simple, automatic, but under these conditions? This was far worse than warfare. It struck her: this was not war but a warigame/i, the kind boys loved to play and assumed girls would and could not. But Riza Hawkeye was not just any soldiergirl. She took a deep breath and met Hughes' bemused gaze with a steely glare that at last turned his smile down a few notches and compelled an apologetic shrug from his shoulders.

He turned to Mustang again. "Come on, big boy." He was once again chipper as he brought Mustang to lean against the desk and reached around to unfasten his trousers.

Hawkeye took her position behind them as she watched the Colonel allow himself to be…shamed. Bending over his desk with his pants around his ankles like that was surely enough punishment, wasn't it? But that was not the agreement. And his solemn willingness to take the position and hold it made his need for stronger measures plain. Hughes pressed down on his lower back as if they'd done this a hundred times and she would be damned if Mustang didn't make a soft, low sound in response. Arousal? No. It must be humiliation. Please let it be humiliation.

She stepped forward, trying not to seem hesitant or uncomfortable, gritting her teeth and determined not to fail in this ridiculous but somehow vital duty.

"Ah-ah-ah," Hughes scolded, holding up a warning finger as she was lowering her gun to Mustang's bare behind. She blinked up at him. He fished a little vial of oil from his jacket pocket and shook it gently at her. She looked down at her gun and grimaced, then blushed. Her automatic was precious to her. Always so clean and so well cared for. It hadn't occurred to her until this very moment that she was not only about to violate her superior officer but that it would soil her favorite weapon! She sighed, resigned to her fate, and allowed the smug Lieutenant Colonel to coat the barrel with the thick oil that smelled of almonds.

"Hmmm…it's wider than I thought, Lieutenant. I'm sure he can take it, though—it's not like he hasn't before, eh Colonel?" Hughes slapped Mustang again. The Colonel didn't flinch, but Hawkeye winced visibly.

"Shut up, sadist," Mustang snarled. "Why do you think I'm having her do it instead of you this time?"

The wargame was officially a surreal nightmare. Hazy suspicions of an intimate wartime relationship between the Lieutenant Colonel and the Colonel were becoming certain knowledge way too quickly. She began to sweat as, for the first time in her adult life, her gun hand began to shake. This she resented above all. Through clenched teeth, she ground out a one-word reply: "Bastards."

Grabbing the oil, she shoved Hughes out of the way. She put the greasy automatic on the desk for the moment, coated her fingers, and flushed hotly as she probed between Mustang's cheeks until she found his entrance, then plunged two fingers inside. He cried out then stifled himself by biting on his forearm. Hughes laughed openly. Hawkeye turned her head sharply and her eyes flashed at the Lieutenant Colonel, who was instantly silenced.

Working her fingers in and out in an act she had not only never committed but never even thought of committing, Hawkeye spoke with bravado born of necessity: "Colonel Mustang, Sir, you have misused my trust and embarrassed me before a fellow officer. I consider these measures necessary to regain my honor and to show you and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes that I am every bit as ruthless a soldier as you. And a damn sight more attractive when sodomizing a superior, Sir." She retrieved her gun from the table with her free hand and swapped its muzzle for her fingers, then began, with Mustang fighting back any sound of the pain he was no doubt experiencing, to bring him the punishment he so heartily deserved.

A slack-jawed Hughes shook his head, marveling in stunned silence at Hawkeye's unexpected but unsurprising prowess. They should have known.


	3. Remnant

Summary: Mustang obsesses over Scar.

Warning: Yaoi (Mustang/Hughes reference).

Author's Note: Written as a little gift for anat_astarte (and her LJ comm fma_sandandfire). It's intentionally short, intented to invoke a moment, a mood.

2/09

Remnant

I know you, Ishbalan. Hulking monster of retribution, you are a tortured remnant of a lost world, a half-dead reminder of a ruinous past. You must be destroyed, as rabid beasts must always be put down. The light in your red, rodent's eyes must be extinguished. I will ensure your destruction to destroy the beast I cannot manage to extinguish in myself.

Twisted and tangled in my bowels, constricting my lungs, some days the memory of who I have become and how elusive is my goal grows overwhelming. My Hawkeye smells it in the air around me, the aura of unspoken obsession. I speak no more of it than necessary: we must find you, eliminate you. She will not venture to verbalize her concerns, her suspicions. I am fraying at the edges, but only she can see it. Maes, you damned deserter, you would see…and speak. I would open for you…only you.

In the coldness of my bed, images of stolen moments of frenzied, battlefield intimacy surge and break over me. iI remove and wipe your glasses clean of dirt and blood. Your shaking fingers tenderly undo the buttons of my jacket. Your kisses are hard, freeing. I look into your eyes and find myself again./i

But suddenly they are not your eyes, Maes, though my cock is still hard in my hand. They're his. The Ishbalan's. The monster's. They bore into me, immolate me. I stroke harder. The flame alchemist, burned alive in the fire of the beast's retribution. Ironic obsession. Fascinated, I watch myself ignite. I convulse hard as I erupt, riding the waves of a climax so dishonorable and unworthy it shakes every inch of me. Before the monster's eyes, my body becomes cinder. It is I who am the remnant now. I grin into the darkness at my grim, self-indulgent illusion and vow your destruction anew, Ishbalan.


	4. Lit From Within

Author's Note: Originally written for the LJ comm fma_fic_contest's "smoke" prompt. Short and, I hope, sweet.

**Lit from Within**

Maes lay on his back, eyes closed, arms and legs splayed, working to catch his breath. "You wear me out, Roy, you know that?"

Roy grinned, panting. Yes, he knew. Though their bond was more often brotherly than sexual, every now and then a good hard fuck was exactly what they both needed…especially Roy. Grunting, he rolled onto his side to bask in the exhausted, contented smile on Maes' face. Tenderly, he reached up a finger to rub those slender, soft lips. The man's kisses seemed to breathe life into Roy's very body, and he devoured them as if his existence depended on it.

Without opening his eyes or moving (he doubted he was capable of it), Maes pressed his lips to those gentle fingertips, then opened to take them in and bite playfully down on them.

Roy withdrew them and snapped, "Hey! I need those. Lethal weapons, you know."

"I know," Maes chuckled. More somberly, he continued: "They always taste of smoke. Did you know? I don't know whether it's a morbid fascination with the aura of war or an addiction to you, my friend, but I've come to crave that flavor."

"Whatever it is, I'm glad." Roy's grin widened as he climbed on top of Maes' prone body and made his renewed arousal plain. "You know what they say, pal. Where there's smoke, there's fire."

Maes feigned exasperation at how damned fast Roy could get hard again, but there was no denying their mutual desire and affection. Roy's flame lit them both from within.


	5. Another Shot

Author's Note: Originally written for LJ's fma_fic_contest. Took 3rd place!!! My first FMA contest win! Squee. I owe it all to you, Roy/Maes angst!

Another Shot

The plain brown folder lay neatly on the end table, put back precisely from where it had been lifted, not a page out of order or a corner protruding. Roy stared at it expressionlessly, elbows on his knees, sitting on the edge of Maes' sofa. The sun was setting. Beside the documents sat Roy's empty mug, drained of the sweet, whiskey-laced coffee he had been served. It was, as always, exactly the way Roy liked it. Maes had insisted he drink before reading, and Roy obeyed without hesitation.

Now his fingers itched to light the paper and watch it burn—light the whole apartment, truth be told—but Roy occupied his hand instead by raising his empty mug for more. Once removed from the table—without a ring or other trace—Roy was confident that no one coming upon the scene would guess that he had just read of the impending attack on Ishbal. Guess that he was at this second facing the reality that he and his men would soon be on the front lines, killing and, perhaps, dying amid the structure and chaos that was war. No, no one would see in his demeanor at this instant any indication of his frustration, his fear. Keeping his cup steady, he banished images of blood and fire and sounds of gunshots and screaming that came to him unbidden. No one could tell anything was amiss, no one except Maes.

Maes rose, walked silently to the sideboard, and returned with the bottle of the expensive whiskey his friend favored. Roy watched the rich-smelling amber liquor splash into the cup. Straight up was how Maes had given him the news; straight up was how he needed his drink now. "This is bad," Roy said, holding his body in check from the shudder fighting to pass through it, downing the burning liquid in a gulp. At last he forced himself to look up and meet Maes' eyes.

"We'll come through this," Maes offered, conviction resonating from deep within him. He put the bottle down with a reassuring clank on the table.

Roy inhaled that assurance like another shot of whiskey. Before he could stop the words, he spoke again. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because we have to." Maes shrugged and sat heavily on the sofa. After a moment, he pulled Roy back, wrapping an arm firmly around the smaller man's shoulder.

Roy sighed and forced himself to relax. Just here, where he was safe, where no one else could see, let him take comfort.

"Don't you know by now I'm your good luck charm," Maes whispered with a grin.

Roy nodded, closing his eyes. If the smile did not reach those spectacled eyes, the flame alchemist would not see it.


	6. Top Dog

Author's Note: A little gift ficlet for the fabulous bob_fish who likes to see Roy on top now and then. This is the best I could do!

04/10

Top Dog

"We've got to get to the bottom of this," Roy Mustang snapped, pounding his fist on his desk, mounded with disordered paperwork that was now slipping to the floor at his feet.

Maes gripped his arm firmly. "Come on, Roy. Easy now. We've been through worse and we'll get through this, too." His eyes were warm and confident.

Roy gritted his teeth. No one in the world could calm and soothe him like Maes Hughes, when he wanted to be calmed or soothed. But no one could be more infuriating when he was just being a selfish shit. Ishbal had bonded them for life; they knew each other to the bone. And mindblowing sex had come along for the ride. But Maes fancied himself top dog, and he used it. Often. The twinkle in his eye behind those glasses gave him away now. The damned opportunist. He was going to use Roy's volatile mood to take advantage of him. But he wasn't deceived this time. Something was very not right at Central and he was determined to get to the heart of it, and here was Maes, pulling his seduction number. Well, he'd missed his mark this time.

Grabbing the hand that held his arm and twisting it behind his back, he quickly pinned Maes face down on his desk. He listened with pleasure as the breath left the taller man in a rush and his glasses skittered to the floor, followed by grunts and flailing that he easily got under control as he kicked his legs apart. Agile and nimble as ever, he reached around to undo Maes' familiar belt and had his pants at his ankles before he could say "Yes, Sir!"

Fishing out his own hard cock, spitting, and plunging it in was only the work of another few moments as Maes seemed to accept his fate with only minor groans in protest. From protest to pleasure, Roy fucked his more-than-fuckmate with rough abandon. Soon, both were panting and Maes was wordlessly begging. How wonderful it was to know it was Maes' cock being crushed against the desk for a change, Maes' body being plundered possessively, Maes' ass getting sore and soon to be filled with a load Roy hadn't realized he had such need to deliver. "Take it," he snarled at last, and shot home.

A few heaving moments later, Roy raised his sweaty body and released Maes' arm. He staggered back to collapse in his chair. Stuffing his sticky cock back into his uniform, he watched Maes stand quietly, pulling up his pants with an absurd grin on his scruffy face. "Feeling better now, I trust."

Damn it, the fucker had seduced him again.


End file.
